


Playing With Monsters

by Brillador



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Batman - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Superheroes, Supervillains
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 22:51:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8552590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brillador/pseuds/Brillador
Summary: Lacey Isabelle "Belle" French has her secrets. To most people, she's a flirty, bourbon-drinking socialite. It's a suitable cover for a masked hero who fights personal tragedy with a desire for justice in a city rife with corruption and crime. If only it were always easy to know who the heroes and villains are. After all, a thief is a thief, even if he plays mild-mannered pawnbroker by day and scaly-skinned burglar by night.





	

She met him the way she met most people nowadays. The French family had a tradition of throwing the most extravagant charity ball of the Christmas season, which should have made it all but impossible for anyone to leave a lasting impression on her. In flowed waves upon waves of socialites, politicians, media celebrities, and bored millionaires with little else to do except throw around money. They flooded the chateau. While it was her house, and she the host, Lacey Isabelle French belonged among the last category of attendees.

Few could outshine Avonlea’s brightest starlets as they captured the wandering eye with sensual gowns, flashing jewelry, bleached smiles and hair conditioned and sprayed into works of art. That said, the hostess was no wallflower. Her midnight-blue dress cut low in the back to show off the small of her back, and it boasted a neckline that left more than one already tipsy male guest a bit hot under the collar. Her hair perched on her head in a puffed bun with a few curls hanging beside her cheekbones. 

Miss French played her usual self. She smiled, laughed, sent flirty glances to keep the men even more unbalanced, all with coy congeniality. 

Anyone who spoke with the heiress—the beautifully imposing Mayor Mills, police captain Graham Humbert (the mayor’s rugged date), police commissioner David Nolan and his girlfriend Mary Margaret Blanchard, the stone-faced DA George Spencer and his aide Anastasia Tremaine, and the many men who carried cards for the best local country clubs—shared a short tête-a-tête that left them knowing as little about her as before. What they did know came from business journals chronicling French Enterprises’ affairs, lifestyle magazines scrutinizing her brazen fashions, and tabloids speculating on which eligible bachelor had a chance of winning her heart, not to mention her pocketbook. Less interestingly, she sat on the board of a few charitable organizations that helped low-income families and homeless children, a chronic problem due to Avonlea’s wealth gap—the very issue that made her privilege possible.

Shyness wasn’t her problem. She chatted, joked, downed several glasses of bourbon. She talked about this little scandal and that little overseas investment. Sometimes she’d slip away without warning, leading the less savory-minded (just about everyone) to assume there was a tryst underway. Lacey didn’t have a date for this party. Whenever she did bring dates to other people’s shindigs, nothing serious was going on behind it. He was always a young man, charming, square-jawed, athletic, and prepared to converse on a limited range of subjects, usually centered on sports and women.

At one point, gossip did circulate that she’d taken things to a more committed level with Will Scarlet, a cop with a checkered past. But he’d since moved on to the DA’s assistant. He wasn’t here tonight, however, which might’ve stirred conversation if anyone cared.

There was no obvious awkwardness between Lacey and Miss Tremaine, except maybe Anastasia had sensed, or just imagined, a strain in the edge of Lacey’s smile, like it was close to cutting into her cheek. And she might have caught a glimpse of something profoundly sad beneath the radiance of the blue eyes and the careless way Lacey grinned and chuckled.

Ana said nothing to draw attention to her observations, and the conversation continued with pleasant civility. Lacey thanked Ana for her and the office’s donations to the philanthropic division of her company. She even asked after Will in a casual manner. Ana said in as few and as polished words as possible that they were both well and he was sorry not to make it. Will had moved up to detective and his partner, Alice Liddel, had them sweating the nights on a few cases implicating the Wonderland syndicate. No rest for the good, nor the wicked.

“That idiot do-gooder better take care of himself,” Lacey groused with easy humor. “Or we’ll both kick his ass.”

Ana laughed at that. Then the crowd circled like a whirlpool, and the ladies moved in opposite directions while exchanging thanks and good wishes. As expected of Lacey French, she started cruising the current, an expert party swimmer, never letting her smooth gait stagger until she was in safe proximity to the powder room. She held out while a gaggle of ladies leaving the room stopped and congratulated her on the lavish spread and decorations for the ball—wasn’t the tree getting taller every year? So like the Frenches! The hostess’s shrug deflected any attention to how her eyes lowered to the floor for a second. She stayed in one uncracked piece until the women returned to the festivities and champagne, and she could make those last few steps into the powder room.

Lacey French was not wholly a stranger to scenes; at more than one party she’d gotten drunk enough to say some nasty remarks to some uptight businessmen, requiring her chauffeur, M. Lumiere, to drive her home. Those had been intentional. Nothing about her reputation was unplanned, from snogging a waiter during Mayor Mills’ speech at her own gala last year to throwing eggs at a motorcycle owned by an “ex-boyfriend.” The city of Avonlea needed to know who Lacey French was so that they’d never see Lacey Isabelle French, or Belle as her mother used to call her.

In this instance, sweat and tears were unacceptable reactions to seeing Will’s fiancée. That she was feeling this surge of anger, hurt and loneliness in her chest while anchoring her hands on the ledge of the marble sink was quite silly. She hadn’t been in love with Will. Not really, not the way she’d hoped she could be. He needed to be with someone who fully appreciated him. Who would be there even when her aspirations, her duty called her elsewhere. If Anastasia met that bar, they deserved to be together. She needed to be happy for him and not let what could have been drown her.

And yet . . .

Any moment Mrs. Potts would come in with that weathered but well-meaning look of concern and reprimand her: Miss French, you’re keeping your guests waiting.  
Yes, her guests. Lacey French’s guests. She couldn’t abandon them to their own amusements. God forbid.  
She looked in the mirror. No tears. Makeup unblemished. Maybe a little flushed from the pressure of keeping her composure even in privacy. It wasn’t real seclusion. Someone could enter any minute to use the toilet or check their lipstick and replenish their mascara. Lacey wanted to do that and pretend that’s all she came in here for. To keep the mask firmly in place.

All that needed doing was smoothing down the slinky, revealing dress. Her breasts were small, but the hint of cleavage and the reach of the V did enough to make heads turn. The ankle-length skirt of the gown brought out an elegance she didn’t often express. Her closet was stockpiled with dresses and skirts that stopped halfway down her thigh—another “Lacey” trait she was rather fond of. They allowed a soothing breeze and a valued change from when she wore tight-fitting pants for other occasions.

Mindful that her posture was straight but relaxed, her chin leveled but her head tilted like nothing could hold her complete attention, Lacey assumed her persona once more and strutted out the powder room—only to nearly trip on the foot of a gentleman swiftly crossing her path.

They had run into each other with such momentum that many seconds were required to step back without falling over. The man had special trouble, as she noticed the cane in his hand.

“Whoa! Slow down!” She interjected the expected levels of annoyance and amusement in her tone. “The party’s not gonna end before midnight.”

“My apologies,” he said gruffly, also annoyed and not at all apologetic.

Lacey narrowed her eyes. She sized him up. She wasn’t so bent on scandalizing the city’s tabloid readers that she’d jump any breathing male, and her stampeder hadn’t done anything to appeal to her good opinion with his brusque response. But she had not apologized, even sarcastically, and she liked that when her eyes traveled up from the tailored black suit—complete with gold cufflinks, a dark blue shirt and blue tie remarkably close to her dress in hue—he was staring back at her eyes, not down her dress or at the leg exposed through the long right-side slit.

He had to be in his fifties, or maybe late forties. Silver hair was growing along his sideburns and temples. It diluted the otherwise brown mane that reached his his jacket collar. His face was too narrow at first—probably the fault of the sharp nose, high forehead and the spacing of his eyes. To call him ugly would have been harsh and inaccurate; he wasn’t likely anyone’s first choice to model for GQ’s cover, either. At the very least he needed another five inches added to his height. In her heels, she met him at eye-level. He had the cut of a serious businessman. When he positioned his cane in front of him and folded his hands on the head, it struck her as a pose, not a natural state of settlement. Definitely a businessman.

That made it impossible for Lacey to capitulate.

“I should say so. You almost tore my dress.” A miffed woman might have stomped out after that, or looked down her nose with threats or a lecture. Lacey took one step toward him. She watched him hold his ground. “What’s your hurry? Afraid they’ll be out of booze before you get back?”

He wasn’t relaxed at all, despite his stillness. The low eyelids pushed up for a moment to tighten his stare. His mouth was locked in a straight line one moment, then inched into a small smile the next. His head jerked to the same side Lacey had her own head tilted. It undulated like a snake’s right before he spoke. Lacey didn’t know if she found it charming, disturbing, or hilarious.

“I was actually on my way out,” he said, “before my carriage turns into a pumpkin.”

The sudden soft chuckle that popped from Lacey’s lungs had none of the artifice of every other laugh she’d deployed tonight. It was simple, uninhibited. Entirely accidental.

“And your suit will turn into rags, I’m guessing.” Her eyes danced over him again. That trim suit may well have been hiding a lanky figure, and the image in tattered clothes made her curious for some reason.

“In a manner of speaking. Am I allowed to go?”

So long as they were playing with the idea that he might not be what he appeared, Lacey raised her eyebrows and slipped another step closer. “Now hold on, Cinderella. There’s still dancing to be had. Aren’t you supposed to have your moment with the Prince?”

“Don’t know if you noticed—” The man lifted his cane. “—but dancing isn’t my thing.”

Like a snubbed schoolgirl, or a spoiled millionaire’s daughter who doesn’t take ‘no’ well, Lacey pouted and glanced away to feign resigned disappointment. “If you say so. But after all the trouble you took coming here—”

“Maybe the prince should find himself another mysterious lady to dance with.” His words were like sandpaper, yet not without a little bite of humor.

Lacey’s gaze delivered more sharpness than she might have intended. “I suppose so. But maybe you owe me. You trampled on my dress, after all.”

“I don’t believe I did such a thing.” 

She started to fear he would stride past her in flat-out refusal. Instead his advancing step was right toward her. Again his head wobbled, the snake closing in on an ensnared rat. So he must have thought; Lacey visualized herself as a mongoose.

“Don’t you? Why don’t you take a good look?” she said.

“If you want to dance with me so badly, why not just ask?”

Damn, he’d called her out. A little too soon, just when it was getting fun. She had no idea how far she’d wanted it to go. It was a nice distraction, better than any party she or the upper crust of Avonlea had ever cooked up. Well, the game wasn’t up quite yet. Lacey glanced at the hand using the cane, and she draped her own over it. “What about this?”

“If you’re determined, I’ll assume you have a kink for enfeebled men.”

Lacey frowned. The frown felt too real for her own good. “‘Enfeebled’ is a bit outdated. How about . . . complexly coordinated?”

The gentleman laughed. Its hoarseness betrayed its authenticity. Lacey grinned.

“Did you just make that up?” he asked.

She cocked her head to the opposite side. “Impressed?”

“Just a little. I thought I had a gift for wording.” The aged lines in his face softened as he switched the cane to his other hand, then turned the first over so his calloused fingertips brushed across the tender skin of her wrist and palm. Lacey couldn’t remember shivering this forcefully, except . . . this was different, though. Not exactly fear, not exactly ecstasy. The two blended into an uncanny sensation that paralyzed her.

They looked up at the same time, meeting in the same moment, and she forgot that she’d considered him unattractive. His brown eyes enveloped depths and little twinkles of illumination, like a cave of diamonds. That hard-pressed mouth had become pliant, inviting. Even the grey hair wasn’t looking so bad.

“With all due respect, Miss French,” he whispered, “I can’t accept your offer. Not tonight.”

Lacey’s chest expanded with a quick inhale. That stung; she’d not been ready. Not for him, for her own actions, for the bizarre scenario she found herself in after a near breakdown in the bathroom. But if Lacey French could do only one thing well, it was bounce back. She lifted her chin. “Well, you can’t accept what was never offered, can you?”

The man shrugged. “Maybe I’ll have better luck next time.”

“If there’s a next time, I better learn your name. You’ve mine figured out.”

“Oh, I expect you’ll come across my name soon.” 

The sparkle in his eye carried a danger that raised a red flag. With sincere concern, wedded with cattiness, she said, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He never let go of her hand. He squeezed it, mostly around her fingers. A gentle gesture in itself, but Lacey sensed the trap right before he pulled her in, dragging her hand toward his hip, until she was more or less pressed to him. His breath on her face lasted a second and a half—long enough for her to sample a whiff of spice, whiskey, almonds, and tangerines, of all things. The alcohol was subtle enough to confirm that he wasn’t drunk—probably had a glass a couple hours ago. She could have intoxicated herself on that unexpected cocktail of flavors had he not moved his mouth close to her ear.

“It means Cinderella isn’t satisfied with just getting the prince. She’s got something bigger planned after the ball. The stepsisters have no idea what’s coming.”  
His head withdrew to its previous distance. Lacey didn’t move an inch. If she wanted, she could get free of the man’s hand without even having to twist his arm around. His grip was loose, and her hand did slink out, but her feet were fastened to the spot. Less than six inches away from his face, Lacey craved another taste of his breath. She leaned in. “I thought Cinderella forgave them for their cruelty.”

He came forward again, too, so that their noses lightly brushed at the tips. Her heart thumped without her permission. 

“Oh, dearie, don’t believe everything you read.”

Barely a second a hesitation, and he pulled back and walked away. Cane tapping in time with his steps, he strolled down the corridor in the general direction of the house’s front entrance. No glance back. No slowing to even think of looking. His saunter belied their intimate interaction—it told anyone who saw him that he’d given himself a self-guided tour of the French family mansion and nothing else of import had happened. Had she been played? If yes, what had she lost? What had he swindled her of? Nothing, yet so much she couldn’t account for. She felt like she’d been robbed blind. Her hand instinctively checked her neck. No, her mother’s pearls were still there. Her fingers checked for the ring on her right-hand ring finger—no.

God dammit! He took the dove ring. Her father had given it to her mother just before—bastard! He’d taken it when he pulled her in. She didn’t even feel it! 

A thief. There was a thief in my house, right under my nose.

The temptation to scream after him or run for help from one of two dozen men ready to tackle an old suit with a bum leg fueled her temper. There was an alternative approach, though, one that required utmost patience. But oh, the reward would be all the sweeter. So she said nothing. As ever, Lacey returned to the dancing, the drinking, the cheesy Secret Santa, and acted as she always did: nothing outside the spectacle of “high society” (she recalled this term much later when Mrs. Potts reported that several articles of clothing were found in the indoor pool) mattered to her. She was shallow, flirty, emotionally distant Lacey French. No one needed any more from her. No one needed to help her deal with her loss. It would be taken care of.


End file.
